


The Raging River

by Horatio13



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Missing Scene, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:08:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horatio13/pseuds/Horatio13
Summary: George relives some unpleasant bridge/river-related memories and Murdoch helps him through it.Takes place just after s7e09 "a Midnight Train to Kingston"
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	The Raging River

**Author's Note:**

> All I'm saying is watching your mentor jump off of a bridge into a river countless feet below would probably be slightly traumatic.

George sucked in a deep breath, looking down through the cracks between the boards of the bridge. The creek churned and bubbled below him, biting cold waters rushing over rocks and branches. The waters seemed to boil, white froth rising like the bile in George’s throat.

Detective Murdoch studied a large red smear on the guardrail of the bridge. “Blood,” he commented.

George nodded tersely. “Do you suppose Mr. Backman was here, then, sir?” He rubbed his thumb against his fingers, releasing some of his anxious energy. His chest ached, and he wished he could be back at the Station House. He couldn’t, though. He was needed here. Missing and probably murdered Mr. Backman wasn’t going to find himself.

“Perhaps.” Murdoch straightened. “I’m going to search the bank.”

A sudden terror gripped George’s heart. He swallowed, his head suddenly feeling like a leaky balloon. He fumbled at the guardrail to steady himself.

The detective noticed, frowning. “Are you all right, George?”

Closing his eyes, George swallowed, taking slow, deep breaths. His heart felt hollow, like a deep, strange hunger that manifested in his chest instead of his stomach. Swallowing, he composed himself enough to nod and fake a smile. “Just a bit dizzy, sir.” It wasn’t technically a lie; his head was spinning like a record.

Murdoch stepped closer, his eyebrows furrowed. “Have you had much to drink, George?” He asked. “Water, I mean.”

George nodded. “Yes, sir, it’s just—” He broke off. “Just a dizzy spell, it’s gone now.”

Detective Murdoch gazed at him darkly, as if he didn’t quite believe him, but he dropped the matter. He stepped off the bridge and carefully climbed down the riverbank.

George watched him from the bridge, his heart seizing again.

A sudden image flashed in his memory, a body falling, tumbling down, down, down, and splashing into the raging water a hundred feet below, George’s voice screaming desperately, _“SIR!”_

Stumbling backwards, George caught onto the guardrail to avoid falling. “Sir!” he gasped. “Sir, it’s not safe!”

Murdoch stooped down, examining the muddy riverbed. “Don’t worry, George,” he said, picking up a clump of dirt in his fingers. “It’s perfectly safe, this creek is hardly two feet deep.”

“No, sir, please!” George’s knees gave out, and he caught himself on the railing. “Just come back!” The detective would fall in the water and drown, he was sure of it.

“George, it’s perfectly safe!” Murdoch called over his shoulder. A metallic glint caught his eye. “Here’s something!” He stooped down, fishing something out of the mud.

George craned his neck. He couldn’t see the detective anymore. He couldn’t make his arms and legs move. “Sir?”

Murdoch didn’t answer, squinting as he washed the mud off of the small, round object.

_“Sir!”_ George gasped.

“A pocket watch!” exclaimed the detective, rising to his feet. He held the watch in the air, turning to face the bridge. “George?” he frowned. The bridge appeared to be empty. “George?”

“Sir?” Crabtree’s voice sounded like a scared child’s.

Murdoch jogged back up the bank and onto the bridge. “George, what’s wrong?”

The constable sat, huddled in a ball, one hand still futilely grasping at the guardrail above him. His face was white, his eyes huge. He sucked in shallow, panicked breaths. As the detective approached, George looked up, relaxing with relief. “Sir,” he breathed. “You’re all right.”

Murdoch knelt beside him. “Are _you_ all right?”

George nodded. “I’m okay,” he said. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

“You look terrified.”

"I'm all right."

Murdoch wordlessly raised an eyebrow.

Smiling humorlessly, George shook his head. “It’s silly,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I just…” He bit his lip. “Remember the night Gillies escaped?”

“Of course.” It had only been a few weeks since the harrowing night on the train.

“And ... the bridge?”

Murdoch nodded solemnly.

“Well,” George said, his hands clasping together. “It’s silly, but, I…”

“The bridge here reminded you of that night,” guessed Murdoch.

George nodded. “And I just couldn’t stop thinking about watching Gillies jump and then you…”

And there it was again, playing out in front of George’s eyes in perfect detail, like a sick moving picture film.

The wind whistled in his ears, savagely cold, even though it was a warm summer night. The river below raged, the thundering roar of the water making him shudder. It reminded him of the fierce waves along the coast back in Newfoundland, the ones his aunts were always warning him about. If you got caught up in one, you could be swept out to sea.

Gillies only glanced at the river for a moment before leaping off the bridge. George heard the sickening splash as he landed.

Murdoch gazed down into the churning river, searching for where Gillies would erupt from the waves to breathe.

George waited. Seconds of horrible, terrible silence passed. The whole world fell silent and still, as if it too was holding its breath, waiting, watching for something to happen.

Murdoch tensed.

“Sir!” George heard himself yell.

That look of desperation Murdoch gave as he turned… George's stomach twisted.

He felt his head shake. _Don’t, sir._

The detective looked back into the water.

Time slowed to a crawl. George could see the detective’s every move, bending his knees as he prepared to jump, the spring forward, his arms slowly spinning in the air as he descended down, down, down, and— 

“George!” Detective Murdoch gripped the constable’s shoulders.

George sniffed, jolting back to the present, to reality, to himself. He blinked away tears.

“You went away for a moment,” said Murdoch, staring with concern into the constable’s eyes.

“Sorry.” George took a breath, wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry, I…” He shuddered. “I just remembered it again, and… it felt so _real_ …”

“You aren’t there anymore, George. It’s over. Gillies is dead, I am safe, and so are you.”

“I know.” George curled into himself. “It’s silly, I’m sorry.”

Murdoch settled beside him, sitting on the wooden bridge. His trousers would get dusty, but it didn’t matter. “It isn’t silly,” he said kindly. There was silence for several moments. “It must have been terrifying for you." Murdoch's voice was soft.

George stared at the creek, watching the water tumble and crash over itself. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered.

The detective hung his head. “You didn’t deserve that,” he said. He gazed into George’s wide, fearful eyes. “And I am so sorry for what I put you through.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it wasn’t _your_ fault, George.” The detective ran a hand through his hair, messing up his neat combed over look. “I was the one who ju— who acted rashly.” Both of them ignored his careful dodge of the word _jump._ “It was a mistake for me to try to go after him like that, and I am sorry.”

George shook his head. “No, no, it’s… it’s not your fault, you had to catch him, he couldn’t be allowed to escape, I just… I …” How could he explain it?

The moment he saw Gillies jump, he knew what the detective was thinking. He could have stopped him. He could have rushed forward, grabbed the detective, tackled him to the ground, restrained him somehow so that he couldn’t jump. But he didn’t. He just stood there.

The time between the jump and when they finally pulled Murdoch out of the water was agonizing. Guilt and fear consumed George like a whirling storm. And when Murdoch had been found, the focus had been on Gillies.

He remembered Murdoch’s desperate cry of _“George!”_ when he admitted they hadn’t found Gillies. The detective needed to know that Gillies was gone. He needed that closure, and that was what George tried to make his focus all the rest of that night.

After the incident, George felt embarrassed to talk about it. It was over, there was nothing to fear. He couldn’t very well admit now that rushing water made him uneasy. Even just the sound of water being poured into a glass was enough to make his heart pound. Rivers, no matter how big or small, made him want to tear his skin off. There was nothing for him to do about his fear but stew in it, to let it fester, to boil around him, cooking him like a potato, so that he’d mush at the slightest touch.

“George?” asked the detective softly. “You’re not there anymore.”

George heaved a breath. “I know,” he mumbled. “I… I was just so scared…”

“You don’t have to be scared anymore,” said Murdoch gently. “I’m not going to do anything like that again.”

George sighed. He suddenly felt the urge to feel the detective, to feel his warmth, to make sure that he was real. He wrapped his arms around the detective in a tight, warm embrace, not letting him go.

Murdoch was stunned for a moment, but slowly slid his arms around the constable, reciprocating the hug.

They remained like that for several minutes, not saying a word.

Eventually, George sniffed. “I just…” he whispered. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Murdoch tightened his grip around the constable. “It’s all right, George,” He said. “I’m here.”


End file.
